Disappointed
by MouseMaster42
Summary: Exploring Marth's character a little. Told in 3rd person limited from his POV. I apologize to everyone waiting on my other story.  Rest assured that I'm not dead.


**Apologies to everyone waiting on The Game. I have one word for my excuse: FINALS. Man. In my defense, I'm only a freshman, and DANG! Finals are scaaary! But anyway, that's why that project has temporarily died (I'll revive it in about a week). In the meantime, I'm supposed to be working on an English project, but I needed to write something. I just sat down, and this is what came out. Hope you enjoy...? It's not my usual style, but whatever. :\ It was partially inspired by the (LAME) Fire Emblem anime, partially inspired by my boredom and my need to write something.**

**Rated T for brief language.**

**Disclaimer: Marth and Cornelius Lowell do not belong to me. They're Nintendo property.**

**.:Disappointed:.**

He sat on the balcony's rail, his legs dangling over the edge. The ground looked so far away from where he was, but he suspected he could make the jump if he wanted to. It was quite tempting—to throw himself off just to see where he'd land. He figured he might even be able to land on his feet if he timed it right, like a cat.

A cat…who was it who had called him a cat?

The memory felt old, and he couldn't pick out a particular face, just an aura. A smiling face, a kind touch on top of his head, a general feeling of pride…

He winced, suddenly realizing who the man in the memory had been. His stomach lurched, feelings of shame briefly welling up before they were hurriedly stifled and stuffed back into their mental box.

He had tried so hard. Everything he did had been done to please him. Every. _Single._ Thing.

And that turned out not to be good enough.

His hands clenched on the balcony rail, strong muscles suddenly rippling up his entire arm, ending in wiry shoulders that hadn't finished broadening into manhood yet. His blue eyes glazed over as righteous anger swelled in his mind, quickly spinning out of control until it took on almost a fiery feeling, burning through his veins and making his lips twist up in a horrible sneer, even though the person who his rage was directed at was long dead—pathetically slain without ever landing a wound on his opponent.

A fitting death for someone who was willing to strike his own son.

Harsh words and the crack of a hand against an unprotected face echoed in his mind, bringing another swell of anger. He had done_ nothing _wrong. He had tried his best—he went on that hunting trip even though he had no interest in killing innocent beings. When a lucky arrow had pierced the deer's hide and he had been ordered to finish it off, he had been unable to even draw his knife.

_'I will not tolerate weakness in my son.'_

_'I hear,'_ he had eventually said, a little boy at the time, and then felt the shameful pricks of tears in his eyes and had dashed away, ignoring his parents' voices raise behind him.

Memories started to melt together, the same man's face morphing from furious to gentle as different thoughts and visions clashed together. Feelings of gratefulness for such a strong father mixed with the sinking feeling of shame as he slowly came to realize that his father would never think he measured up.

He moaned and leaned forward a little on the railing, blood rushing to his head as he started to lose his balance. His hands tightened, and he righted himself just before tumbling over the edge. His eyes remained closed as a breeze tickled his face, tousling his blue hair that was unrestrained by any ornament of rank.

And still the memories came—his father congratulating him on his swordsmanship, and then the next day making him practice until his palms bled. Smacking him upside the head when he couldn't remember the name of an important man at a banquet, and then lifting him up on his shoulders so that he could watch the newly knighted men walk by in their glittering armor. Toasting him with a goblet of fine wine when he emerged victorious from a spar with one of the local knights, hugging him close when he was a little boy and scared of thunderstorms, laughing heartily when his elder sister told a joke, promising that their family would be safe forever…And then leaving him alone when the war came, explaining that he wasn't ready yet, leaving him and his mother and sister virtually undefended while he went off to play the hero.

…And then, he had the audacity to die without any further explanation, without any apology, without a _comment,_ even! Cornelius Lowell died without any word of love, without any words of love or advice or even a quiet goodbye.

Instead, the only words he had for his son were "Now, you must be great."

_ As if he hadn't tried his best to be great before!_

"Damn!" Marth Lowell hissed, smashing his hand against the stone balcony and cringing as a layer of skin scraped off, tingeing his knuckles with red. He glanced at the shallow wound distastefully, wondering why he couldn't shake off the ghost of his father. He had tried as hard as he could, as he did with everything, almost convincing himself at times that he was fine. Almost tricking himself into thinking of his father as a kind and perfect king, one who was worthy of the bows and adoration he believed.

But, at times like these, when he was able to be truly honest with himself, there was little that he really missed about his father. And yet, somehow…at the same time, he missed everything.

Buried even deeper than the idea that he had eventually come to hate his father was the idea that he had loved him more than he ever thought. A childish part of him ate up the praise whenever it came, and used the criticism only as an excuse to work harder, to push himself beyond the limit just to see if he could.

All in the hopes that someone would notice and finally just be able to tell him, "You were great."

In the end, that was all he longed for. Someone to end it. Someone to say, "You've done enough." Someone to look at him and just be able to say, "You did a good job," without immediately pointing out all of the things that he could have done better.

Just once would have been enough.

Just three words would have been enough.

Was that so hard?

"So why didn't you?" Marth whispered. "What did I do wrong?" He looked over the balcony rail once again, calculating how he would land—how he could roll to absorb the shock. He was confident that he could do it.

Instead, he swung his legs back over the rail, placed them on the stone floor of the balcony itself. What was the point of trying if nobody would appreciate his efforts?

Hopelessness overwhelmed him, making him sway a little on his feet.

He gritted his teeth against it, forcing those feelings from his mind, and then quickly walked towards the door, determined to shake off the dark feelings that continued to plague him, even now.

"You're dead," he whispered. "You should not be able to touch me!" His bloodied hand trembled as it brushed the crystal doorknob.

Something inside of him broke, and all in one movement, he suddenly whirled around and dashed across the balcony. Strong hands grabbed hold of the balcony rail he had been sitting on a moment ago and he fearlessly vaulted over it. He flew into the air, all breath, all thought leaving him until he landed lightly on the ground.

'_You're like a little cat, Marth. Always landing on your feet!'_

**.:.**

**So...yeah. Not sure where that came from. I have perfectionist parents, so maybe that's part of it. ;_; I realized recently that with this and that, I've been writing Marth for over a year now. Who knew. Anyway...There's some angst for ya. Thanks for reading. **

**The Game'll be back online soon! (Many apologies to anyone/everyone waiting on that...) Oh, and if you've sent me a message and I haven't responded, I apologize to you as well. I'll get to all of that as soon as school's done. ;_;**

**Please review this even if you didn't like it. Feedback is always good. :) (But don't just flame, tell me why you liked/didn't like it please; that's the only way I'll learn.)**


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